Hunted
by 221bwink
Summary: Sherlock was on a case, gets stabbed and has no recollection of what happened or who maybe responsible. John vows to help his friend find out what really happened that night.


He awoke with a sudden start, like being slapped around the face and within nano seconds his brain had fired up and was into full conciousness. The surroundings were not as he had left them he observed...the dark wet London back street that he had been running down was gone and in it's place was a grim, dank room that smelt of decay. Ripped flowery curtains hung limply at an arched window which was badly boarded up. Tiny slivers of bright sunlight caught the particles of dancing dust. He was on the floor, back slumped up against a wall, breathing shallow and erratically but alive...

Suddenly and with no warning, the searing pain began to filter in to his mind, he looked down and saw the cause. A hunting knife, with a horn handle and brass fittings was sticking out of the front of his thigh. Trust his mind to see that first. His dark suit trousers were soaked with blood. He took a sharp intake of breath and then instinctively rummaged for his iPhone. It was still there in his jacket pocket but with very little charge. Who to call? What was his name? Oh shit, he thought, my mind is failing, my hard drive is stalling. Blood loss? How long had he been here? Fingers fumbled and shook, it was pure effort trying to find the number in his contacts... finally it rang out, and a stern but all too familiar voice responded.

"Sherlock...what now? I **am** rather busy this morning...

"Mycroft... Help...me" he interrupted and then he passed out.

Blackness and pain washed over him and he let go. The lights in the corridors of his mind went out.

It was a whole day before Sherlock came too. The world around him this time was bright, white, smelt of disinfectant and beeped. He felt like his mind was inside a honey jar, thick and sticky. Thoughts came to him but fragmented and fell apart. Morphine. Not good for working. Slowly his pale feline eyes began to focus on his surroundings. IV drip in left arm. Monitors. Fan whirring. Quiet dulled voices murmuring in the distance. Conveying a sense of relief and concern.

Then without warning, eyes, warm smiling eyes of someone he recognized. A friend. His only true friend... John. Then Sherlock let a small weak smile break his own alabaster mask.

_**He had gotten too close, too near to the truth she never wanted the world to know. He was a clever man, fast, lean and hungry for the answers. He perversely loved the chase, the game and boy had she led him on a merry one. She had wanted to love him, she did love him but it had to end, it had to be over. A sigh escapes her lips as she boards the plane taking her to her new life, away from the truth**__** and the lies**__**, away from **__**an im**__**possible love and knowing that with him dead and gone, she was also safe.**_

"Thank god you are alright" gushed John, his emotions almost getting the better of him.

"What happened John?"

"You were stabbed... Badly, almost hit your femoral. The knife went in 5 inches and there was a chemical trace on the blade"

That would explain the profuse bleeding he had encountered and the now weird sensation in the whole of his left leg. Subconsciously he reached down and touched it and attempted to shift it a little. No motion occurred, not even the flicker of a nerve. A sense of slight panic washed over him. Paralyzed? Please god no...

"Sherlock, Sherlock," John clicked his fingers in front of his friend's face, seeing the concern. "it's OK, minor nerve damage and chemical paralysis but that will improve." John spoke reassuringly.

"What was the chemical John?"

"Bupivacaine" John replied simply. "A type of nerve block, normally used in the spine"

Sherlock ran through it's chemical composition in his mind and hoped there would be no lasting damage. Slowly his glance turned back to John, he looked at his friend deeply, taking in the lines of war, the marks of a man who had seen so much.

"How long will I be here? Asked Sherlock, quietly, already fearing the reply.

"Well, once you can pee and walk, you will be free to go... Under my supervision"

Sherlock turned away and shrugged... He was too tired to fight the urge to say something in sharp retort. Instead he nodded at John in resignation of his current state of affairs, then dialed up his morphine and let sleep take him.

John sat on a hard plastic chair, with a coffee in one hand and his mobile in the other. He sent a text to Mrs Hudson first, then Mary. It did not seem that long ago that she had put him in a room like this, John shuddered and shook that thought from his mind. It was the past, water under the bridge, forgotten and forgiven by all concerned. It was their secret. After all she had saved him.

It was a few days later that Sherlock was discharged from hospital under the strict instructions to listen to the strict instructions of his doctor friend. He reluctantly agreed to these terms but knew he would break them more than once. He was on crutches for a start, no weight bearing for a while. He hated this and had in fact hissed with real venom at the physiotherapist his distaste. But he could not move anywhere with out them right now and at least he felt a tiny bit like a pirate.

The welcome smell of 221b lifted his spirits. He lowered himself very carefully into his leather chair, with an audible groan of discomfort. He looked around, nothing had been touched and he smiled. The sense of calm he got from his own organized chaos pleased him. Just because to the outside world his rooms looked like a tornado had been to tea didn't mean they had.

John was in the kitchen, fussing and making tea for them both. It was an odd scene of domesticity but for now it would be the status quo. John knew Sherlock would not listen to his medical advice, not heed his knowledge. He set out a tray with the cups and saucers, a teapot brewing away and some custard creams. Sherlock rarely ate, but while his transport was broken, he needed sustenance.

As he walked back to give Sherlock his tea he found him holding up a huge hunting knife, the hunting knife that had done the damage.

Sherlock turned the knife over and over in his elegant hands, his long fingers working the blade like a spider spinning silk. He then sat up and threw it with all his might at the yellow smiley face on the flocked wall papered wall. It landed right in the middle of the circle with a jarring thwack. Sherlock smiled like a big kid.

"Now it has a nose"

John just stared at his friend... Then burst out laughing and Sherlock joined him.

"Seriously Sherlock" John interjected, "what on earth happened back there, in the street, who stabbed you?"

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, spread his palms upwards, looked at the ceiling and then shot his gaze back to John.

"I don't know, I really actually don't know. I have tried to take myself back there but it's still not in here " Pointing to his own head. "I remember running after someone, it was dark, wet and cold but then there is nothing" His eyes were darting as if to try and place himself at the scene, "this scares me John, why is it missing?"

John looked at his bewildered friend but could not offer him any real answers. It was distressing to see a man with his kind of mind, lost.

"I don't have any answers right now Sherlock but I vow to you today, together we will find them"


End file.
